Enchantress: A Novel of Rav Hisda's Daughter (45 page)

“In any case, she is no longer available for questioning.” Adurbad grimaced as though he had eaten something rotten. “The king, upon hearing that she’d accused him, ordered that she be taken to the barracks and given to his guards. As they dragged her away, she began screaming that it had been Hormizd and Warazdukh’s idea all along.”

“Where does this leave us?” Rav Nachman asked.

“Prince Hormizd has been imprisoned, very comfortably of course,” Kardar replied. “And his wife confined to her apartment in the harem.”

“Why should the king, who has killed so many family members to secure his throne, continue to rule?” Ifra protested.

We all turned to look at her, but it was Yalta who pointed out the difficulty with what we were thinking. “If Ifra’s son becomes our new sovereign, there could be years of internecine power struggles between the noble houses until he comes of age.”

 • • • 

During the following month, King Adhur Narseh, after accusing the nobility of plotting against him, which in all probability some of them were, began executing courtiers from every noble house. Guarded by Kardar’s jinni and our magic, Ifra remained safely aloof from the palace. The two of us spent many pleasant hours discussing our families, our childhoods, and the various cities we’d lived in. Ifra was fascinated by my visits to the West and my
charasha
training. And of course she wanted to talk about babies.

The magi were greatly relieved when her child quickened on schedule. In hindsight, however, this must have been what the nobles were waiting for. Less than a week later, Adurbad arrived unexpectedly just as we were breaking our fast. The ashen-faced magus fell to his knees before Ifra and intoned, “The king has been murdered, stabbed to death in his bed. His body was found this morning, already cold.”

Ifra slumped into her pillow. “Thank Heaven.”

“What about Prince Hormizd?” Rav Nachman asked.

“He will remain
Prince
Hormizd,” Adurbad stated. “And he will remain in prison.”

“But he is the oldest son,” Rava pointed out. “There must be some who support him.”

“Very few,” Adurbad said. “Not since Prince Ardeshir accused him of inciting Prince Shapur and himself against the king. He demanded vengeance, and wasn’t quiet about it either.”

Ifra locked eyes with the magus. “What will happen now?”

“My queen, the Chaldeans have calculated that the most auspicious time for your son’s coronation is in six weeks.”

I thought he must have misspoken, saying “weeks” when he meant to say “months.” So did Yalta, for she asked him, “Did you say ‘weeks’?”

He smiled and nodded. “Hoyshar insists the boy be crowned while still in the queen’s belly. That ceremony must take place at the palace, but with your permission, she will continue to live here until the birth.”

“I agree,” Ifra answered before Yalta could speak. “Even with Prince Hormizd in prison, I won’t feel safe in the palace.”

Considering all the enchantments we’d laid, she would be safer at Nachman’s even if Hormizd were in chains.

 • • • 

I was eagerly anticipating the coronation, where I’d see the great throne room and witness the pomp and pageantry that would surely accompany such an august ceremony. I felt confident Leuton could enlarge my outfits sufficiently that no one would know I was six months pregnant. Alas, fate intervened three days before the grand event, when a message arrived from my brothers informing me that Father had died unexpectedly the day before.

Abruptly I was plunged into mourning, Rava along with me, for he was determined to honor the man who had been both his teacher and father-in-law. Despite my pregnancy, I insisted on going home to grieve with my family. It was a sign of our slaves’ competence that we were all on a boat to Sura within the hour.

Nevertheless we arrived to learn that Father had been buried earlier that day. Observing Shiva for him had been a different experience from mourning Mother, whose death had been anticipated for weeks. Father had died suddenly, so suddenly that he had been teaching Torah one moment and had collapsed on the floor the next. Despite his advanced age, there was an element of shock, almost disbelief, in our bereavement.

Numb with grief, I sat with the women, where I was ignored just as when Rami died. All week Father’s former students poured in to honor him and commiserate with my brothers and Rava. I’d never seen my husband shed so many tears as he did that week, as scholar after scholar eulogized Father, not only for his vast erudition, but for his kindness, humility, and patience. Evidently his teaching techniques—praising his students instead of punishing them, taking time to draw out the shy ones, never using sarcasm or shaming them—were less common than one would have hoped.

Sitting with the women had its blessings, for they were family: my sister, sisters-in-law, and nieces. Unlike at Mother’s Shiva, I had no need to be courteous to strangers or to worry how I would be perceived or judged. I hadn’t realized how constrained I’d felt living at Yalta’s until I compared it to the comfort and freedom of my childhood home. Being back in Sura was like going barefoot after a long walk in too-tight shoes.

When the week ended and Rava asked when I wanted to return to Machoza, I decided to stay longer so I could visit with my family unburdened by Shiva’s heavy strictures. That was when I learned the extraordinary circumstances of Father’s death.

I was chatting with Mari and Rahel when their youngest child, a girl about four or five, skipped by, a kitten chasing a string in her wake.

“Hannah,” Mari called to her. “Come and tell your aunt what you saw the day your grandfather died.”

“It was strange,” my niece began. “I was outside, in the garden, when it got cold all of a sudden, so I went inside for a shawl.” Hannah had evidently told this tale before, for even a precocious child her age would not have been so articulate without help.

“Go on,” Rahel urged her, and I couldn’t help but shiver in anticipation.

“I came in and saw this tall man. He was wearing a dark cloak and walking back and forth outside where Grandfather was teaching,” she said. “I wondered why he didn’t go in.”

She paused and Mari put his arm around her. “What happened next, Daughter?” he asked softly.

“The man stopped walking around and stood still until there was this loud crash outside,” she replied. “Grandfather stopped talking and everyone looked around to see what it was. He saw the dark man and they kept looking at each other until he fell down.”

Rahel suggested Hannah go to the kitchen and ask Cook if there were any pastries left. “That noise was the sound of a large cedar branch breaking off,” she explained when the girl was out of hearing range.

“Evidently Samael needed something to distract Father from teaching Torah for a moment,” Mari added.

Dumbfounded, I watched the child leave. Hannah had seen the Angel of Death come for Father and, ignorant of what she’d witnessed, had not been afraid.

“You must train her as a
charasheta
,” I finally said. “Such a gift should be carefully nurtured.”

Mari and Rahel exchanged glances. “Perhaps you would consider instructing her,” he replied.

I gulped. “But I am merely a student myself.”

“You are no mere student,” Rahel chided me.

“I suppose I could, when she’s older,” I equivocated.

“Of course when she’s older,” Mari said. Then he looked at me and grinned. “On that subject, I know you’ve already chosen Abaye’s daughter Tamar to marry Joseph, but have you considered a bride for Sama yet?”

The idea of Hannah becoming my daughter-in-law pleased me so much I didn’t know who to hug first, Mari or Rahel. Who better to teach Hannah than her own aunt, one who shared the same talent? I couldn’t wait to talk to Rava about the match.

I was merely surprised to learn that my brother Nachman, instead of taking Father’s place as head of the
beit din
, intended to continue as tax collector for the Jewish community. To Rava, however, my brother’s refusal to assume Father’s position meant students who’d been studying Torah in Sura would now go elsewhere, including Chama and Bibi.

TWENTY-EIGHT

SECOND YEAR OF KING SHAPUR II’S REIGN
• 311 CE •

W
ith the approach of Rosh Hashana and the impending birth of both my child and Ifra’s, I couldn’t help but appreciate how Mother’s ghost had warned me that higher priorities would prevent me from returning to Sura to summon her again this New Year. My brother Nachman’s wife, Shayla, came to Machoza to assist me, but she wasn’t the only one descending on the capital. The new king’s imminent arrival had Ctesiphon flooded with visitors. Rumors abounded that the royal coffers would dispense thousands, some said tens of thousands, of gold and silver coins to the poor when the boy was born.

Ifra and I observed Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur quietly at home, growing more uncomfortable with each succeeding day. Finally, on the next Shabbat, Ifra’s water broke. Rav Nachman sent guards to inform both the exilarch and the magi, and obviously the word spread, for within hours a crowd had gathered in the street. Thankfully, Papi had the good sense to take the boys up to the roof, where they could watch the people below and play in the nearly completed sukkah while Ifra labored inside.

Shayla maintained that Ifra’s labor was unremarkable, but knew better than to object when Kardar arrived with a Persian midwife and Nehemiah sent over a Jewish one. As per Persian custom, Ifra began her labor in a recently cleaned room, and would remain there for forty-one days after the birth. Then the magi would purify her so she could return to the palace.

The midwives eyed each other like two cats with one fish. The Persian was older, with a bent back and a face full of wrinkles, while the Jewish one was plumper, much plumper. Both reacted with outrage when I asked if they’d washed their hands after last using the privy. But I refused to let them examine Ifra until they did.

“You know demons live in dark and disgusting places,” I reminded them. “If you don’t say the proper spell while washing your hands, they’ll come out of the privy along with you.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” the Persian huffed.

The Jewess supported her. “Who made you such an expert?”

Before I could defend myself, Shayla stepped in. “Hisdadukh is a skilled sorceress, who has studied for years with the best
charasheta
in both Pumbedita and Sura.”

Yalta drew herself up tall and used her most authoritative tone. “And now she is studying with me.”

The plump midwife nodded meekly, but her colleague retorted, “Water is a holy creation. It would be defiling—”

She didn’t get the chance to finish because Ifra sat up and declared, “I am your queen. I command you to do as she says.” Ifra locked eyes with the magi’s midwife. “Otherwise you shall not enter this room.”

“Come,” I beckoned to them. “I’ll show you what to do.”

So all except Yalta, who promptly excused herself, took turns using the privy and washing with clean well water while I said the incantation. As we walked back, the Jewish midwife asked me, “Will this magic work if I recite the spell when I wash, or must a
charasheta
say it?”

“It should work for anyone,” I said. “And I encourage you to tell others about it.”

Though I hadn’t sensed any demons in the birthing room, I still recited a spell to adjure any liliths and
ruchim
to flee when we returned. After the midwives did their examinations and agreed with Shayla’s earlier assessment, there was little to do but wait. At first the two silently glared at each other while Shayla and I whispered those psalms known to ease the pangs of childbirth. But as the hours passed, they began telling stories about unusual births they’d attended, each more harrowing than the last.

“I delivered a set of triplets,” the Persian said proudly before launching into the details.

The exilarch’s midwife replied, “I once had a client whose baby was stuck sideways so tightly I had to reach inside her and pull it out.”

I could see Ifra growing more frightened with each tale until Shayla abruptly interrupted with, “I’ve attended so many births I’ve lost track of the number, but each child survived, as did every mother.”

I knew this was due more to Mother’s spell than to Shayla’s expertise, but it effectively silenced the dueling midwives.

Still not sensing any demons, which I suspected was the jinni’s doing, I remained with Ifra until my eyes wouldn’t stay open. Her screams woke me just before dawn, and when I rushed downstairs, the men were clustered together outside her room, praying. They stepped aside to let me pass, and just as I was about to enter, Ifra’s cries were replaced by the lusty yowls of a newborn baby.

“Yes, it is a boy,” the Persian midwife announced. “Well formed and of good size. I have already lit a lamp for him.”